


The Turning-Point

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Ghosts, M/M, More like Gothic Novel, Victorian Ghost Story Ish?, i will add more tags as i go but i'll try not to keep it too dark, it's for the victorian aesthetic ok, lots of ghosts, sorry I killed off the main character in the first sentence, there is kissing, there is some stuff dealing with death in childbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In 1887, an American gun slinger of mixed origins, an Italian Pre-Raphaelite  poet and artist known for his depictions of only one woman in his paintings, a struggling performer from Montreal grieving the death of his fiancee and left with an illegitimate child, and a Prague-born novelist determined for greatness are invited to the the London manor of the tragically deceased Russian actor and aristocrat Victor Nikiforov by his companion Yuuri to sort through any possessions they might want.  They are also informed that it was Victor's last wish that they stay at his home until they can produce a new piece of art.  One inspired by his memory.The party of artists, each desperate for new creations, begin to find inspiration in their haunting surroundings.  Some might find love, others, hope.(The Victorian Gothic AU nobody asked for.  And I'm terrible at summaries.  The main ship is Emimike.)





	1. The Cloud Confines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo de la Iglesia journeys to the house of an old, newly-deceased friend.
> 
> "The Past is over and fled;  
> Nam'd new, we name it the old;  
> Thereof some tale hath been told,  
> But no word comes from the dead;"

Leo. 30 November, 1887

         

In the middle of November, it snowed for a full week.  The streets were still and the air was quiet, the full sky and all was motionless.  It was then that I was informed of Victor’s death.  He contracted pneumonia, or so we were told, and died very suddenly.  He was a young man of 27 with a notable fortune and a notable presence as a performer.  His presence had graced many stages in many lands and yet his reputation never preceded him.  In short, he was well-recognized as a good man.

             

As there were many of us scattered across the globe, very few made it to the proper funeral.  He had no descendants and many possessions and such a combination was the reason his student, a foul-mouthed, barbed-tongued boy of sixteen years of age named Yuri, begrudgingly sent out a letter inviting those who could make it to his London townhouse and mansion along the moors to dig through his belongings to see if there was any possession any of us would want.  I never called Victor a friend, myself, I was surprised that it seemed he considered me one.  At least my name was folded into an address book reserved for those deemed important.  Rather, important enough that we be considered worthy of invitation to rummage through his excessive residences.  Now, as I am a born and bred Texan, from the proud town of Houston, I would typically turn down such an extravagant offer.  Luckily for me, I was in Paris so vice out-did virtue.  It was my first time living in Europe, knowing no French, but found myself surprised how many city-folk would pay good money to see an American fire a gun.  I learned less quickly that they would pay even more money to see a Spaniard spin tales about non-existent wars.  I am no Spaniard and quickly ran out of tales.  And so I left snowy Paris by boat, the water frigid and inky black but not frozen.  In London there was no snow, not even the fog it is so famed for (I had been some times before at the beginning of my teenaged years).  Instead of a blanket of white, the world was grey.  With only an address, I de-boarded the ferry in hopes of fanding the home of my lost friend.

           

“I did not expect you to arrive first of the invited parties.”     

I was greeted by the heavily accented hiss of a voice of the deceased man’s student, small and fair-haired, trying desperately not to shift from one foot to the other.

           

“Well, I did not either if I must be frank.”

           

“Ah, yes. The American. I was wondering if you would make it.  Supper is ready.”

           

At supper, the student and I were joined by another Russian companion of Victor, who was also present at his death.  He was a tall man with an expression that seemed expertly contorted into something unruly, soft blue eyes that he seemed desperately to want to seem both alluring and mysterious, but also dangerous.  They did no such thing.

           

“I must admit that I am right surprised that Victor’s friend ain’t here with us, given how close they were.  You’d think he would want some of Victor’s belongings.”

           

The two Russian men dropped their forks and I swear, I have never seen gazes so penetrating.

           

“He has other matters to attend to in the other countries.  Victor left behind him many loose strings.” The student narrowed his gaze once more.

           

“Why do you talk like that? You don’t look like white American.” The other man, Georgi, quickly asked.  Yuri must have stepped on his foot as he jumped back a bit and quickly murmured an apology.

           

“Georgi here does not mean ill. He has never met another American. Not that I have, myself, but he thinks you are all the fair skinned owners of slaves.”

           

What I did not comment on was that the older of the two men made a very good point.  He had a keen eye for performance, I noted, while Yuri possessed a keen eye for culture. Indeed, not all of us were the fair-skinned children of owners of slaves.  Some of us were, indeed, their children, but not with their wives, and not with their slaves.  I was raised by my mother and my mother alone and the pair seemed to know all of those implications.

           

Perhaps Victor told them.  He never seemed adept at secrets.  The truth is, he and I had only briefly first met during my childhood.  I was eight and he sixteen and my mother told me he was an actor. I went to the play.  It was Shakespeare but I did not know that at the time.  My mother spoke to me in English for our own survival (I only learned Spanish in later years through my travels ) but I did not understand the young man, his Russian accent almost impossible to hear as he delivered Hamlet’s lines.  There were paintings of him in that role around the world, I’d learn, Victor clad in black, his hair, long almost silver and wild, staring wide eyed at the spectral image of an armor-clad ghost.  I wanted to be an actor.

He left after a week but not after gaining the address of the house in which my mother and I resided but certainly did not own and he promised to write me.

           

I never did become a proper actor, but Victor and I did write over the years.

     

“So you became an actor.” He said to me when I saw him last, less than a year ago.  His hair was no longer wild, cropped close to his head, his eyes softer.

     

“Sharp shooter.  What I learned in Texas.”

He laughed at that.  And I never saw him again.

 

     

 

 

 

 

     

“You, American.” I was brought back to my senses by the angry boy glowering in my face.  “Are you going to eat the rest of your supper or not? I’d like to feed my cat if you’re going to waste it.”

       

I must have consented to his request to take my food and feed his pet, but try as I might, I can not recall the moments that followed.  It seemed as if I suddenly found myself on an orange plush couch, the only vibrant spot of color in an otherwise grey and deep burgundy parlor.  The wait staff had been excused for some nights, and yet I had a cocktail.  It must have been prepared for me by one of the two Russian men while I did not notice.  Surely I was in something of a travel induced stupor, as when I closed my eyes and opened them next, I was in one of the many bedrooms, one with cream colored walls and pale blue sheets. Unlike the previous day, the London sun seeped through the cracks in the curtains.  Footsteps downstairs, loud and determined, indicated that the next of the guests, our mourning, scrounging party had arrived.

 

When I at last made my way downstairs, after some debating with myself, I found myself face to face with a lean, olive-skinned man with pale eyes and a nervous expression.  He stood tall, almost too tall, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“American, this is Michele Cirspino. He comes from Italy. You know him, I do not doubt it.”

The small, angry student of the deceased actor gestured at the man who only nodded.  Of course I knew who he was.  Michele was a renowned poet and artist both, one who spent extensive time in both Italy and London.  While his writing was of the more sentimental sort, it was his paintings that captivated all viewers.  Almost all of them depicted a young woman with dark hair and wide, bright eyes

“Leonardo. The sharp shooter.  Your reputation precedes you.”                                   

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, all chapters (plus the fic title) come from poems by the Rossettis. A certain brother and sister in the fic might or might not be loosely based on them too. Hmmmm.


	2. Woodspurge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My eyes, wide open, had the run  
> Of some ten weeds to fix upon;  
> Among those few, out of the sun,  
> The woodspurge flower’d, three cups in one."

_1 December. Michele_

Dear _Signore Michele Crispino,_

_I am heartbroken to inform you that my dear companion Victor has passed away.  He was a very important figure and friend to many of us, and I understand this may be difficult to hear.  His passing, I know, has shattered my heart.  There was no one else in this world I was as fond of as I was Victor._

_I understand that, at the time, you are in your home in Italy, so I understand an inability to attend the funeral.  By the time you read this, he will be buried anyway. but I would like to invite you to Victor’s manor in London to see if any of his belongings would be of interest to you.  I have invited some others as well, those I speculated would be interested.  I will not be there, myself, as I will be handling the rest of Victor’s affairs in Russia.  However, as Victor was an eager advocate of the arts and the creation of the arts, his last wish was for his beloved friends to use his London home as a space to work in the time following his death, as a way to commemorate his life and his legacy.  He selected four of you to make yourselves comfortable and create your art in the luxury of his home (I have been told, in addition to one Leo de la Iglesia, American gun man, who was invited for the purpose browsing Victor’s belongings alone, but has been encouraged to stay).  So, please, pack for more than just a handful of days.  I trust you can produce some fine poetry.  Allow the city of London to inspire you.  It is, after all, far different from your home of Naples._

_Victor’s student and friend Yuri Plisetsky will greet you at the door.  It is with sorrow that I cannot greet you myself._

_With fondness and condolences,_

_Yuuri_

That was how I learned of Victor Nikiforov’s passing.  Yuuri, his companion, was a nervous man at first greeting, though had been known to surprise plenty of individuals from time to time.  With this nervousness in mind, I was surprised to receive such a blunt, yet almost unfeeling letter.  Uncharacteristic would perhaps by too strong a word.  Victor and I were never exactly close in life.  I respected him as performer and he respected me as writer, but that was the extent of our friendship.  And yet, I was one out of four artists beckoned to utilize a dead man’s home to write.  Ordered, really.  And yet, knowing Victor, I was not surprised.  It was a particularly vain act, to think himself so grand that it would be an honor to create something, ideally something magnificent, in his memory, his honor, and physically, in his home.

Sara desperately wanted me to leave.  When I asked her why she took my hand and rolled her eyes and said that Victor always got what he wanted, even in death.

          

“Besides,” she added, “perhaps a trip could give you the inspiration you need for your next poem. I could do with some solitude, myself, anyway.”

           

Solitude.  Of course she wanted solitude.  She told me not to write her while I was away.  I wouldn’t, but her wish and my compliance would not fill the heart where my beloved sister has always resided.

           

When I arrived at the London manor of my old acquaintance, I did not expect to find his old student (Yuri, that was his name, the same name as the man who seemed to forever be at Victor’s side) at the door, and I expected to find a tall Texan on the stairwell even less.

           

“Michele Crispino, the gem of Italy’s very own Pre-Raphaelite movement,” he greeted me with a smile.  He certainly did know my profession.     “I must admit that poetry isn’t much of my style, but I’d give good money to see you write a short story.”

           

Leo and I met once before, indeed through Victor.  We saw the world in different ways with different purposes.  He came from the sort of background an individual would find in a serial story.  He grew up jumping from place to place and name to name and, last I heard, was settled in France.  Victor introduced us at a ball he threw, himself, gathering his global friends to celebrate his revival performance as Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.  It was something of a gala for artists with money.  That is to say, us.  Then, Leo and I spoke only briefly.  However, clearly that was about to change as we were now the guests of a deceased host.  It seemed strange to say we were the guests of young Yuri.

           

“It is good to see you, yourself Leo.”  But then I wanted to ask him about the nature of his letter.  After all, Victor’s companion quite specifically pointed out that Leo was not invited to write in the same way that the rest of us were. “Did you get a letter from Yuuri? The Japanese man, not the one here.”

           

He seemed shocked at the question.

           

“Yes. It simply told me to come sort through Victor’s possessions and stay as long as the spirit moved me.” Interesting

           

"The rest of us were, apparently, invited to write, instructed to stay until we finished some work.”

           

“Perhaps you need a man who can fire a gun to protect you artistic folks.”

           

The comment itself did not make me uneasy, but the suggestion we might need protection.  I have read enough stories about London’s ghosts.

           

We were halfway through supper when the next guest came.  Leo and I were seated at opposite sides of a long table.  The flames of the candles danced off the dark wallpaper, a deep purple in the daytime, but in the dim lighting appeared more to be a black velvet.  The man who was led in by a begrudging, still scowling Yuri was tall, fair skinned with sandy hair, the slightest hint of a beard lining his jaw.  He removed his hat and one of the servants, whose name I did not yet receive, took it along with his grey coat and disappeared down the hall.  His smile did not belong in the macabre room, which he quickly seemed to pick up on and he coughed as if to chase it away.

           

“My name is Emil Nekola, from Prague.  I was told that Victor wanted me to write a novel.”

           

Ah yes.  Another writer.  I did not want to know which artistic trade our fourth guest would be a master in.  And yet, he spoke with a charming frankness, a barely covered desire to alleviate the atmosphere, heavy with candle smoke and the mourning of the friendship with the now dead man that could have been but never properly was.  I noticed a small smile dancing across his lips.  I found it comforting. 

           

Emil sat next to me and that ghost of a smile brightened when I properly introduced myself.

           

“Michele Crispino! I have read your poem about the fairy queen countless times.  The fay with the violet eyes. Undoubtedly a favorite of mine.”

           

I confessed to him that I had not yet read his novels, to which he dismissed my comment with a wave of the hand and a pat on the shoulder.

           

“They have not yet been translated anyway.  But the work I write here, it will be in English. Everyone can read it. Even the non-artist American.”

           

Leo snorted, though I sensed it was actually a chuckle.

           

As the three of us talked and exchanged tales of our largely uneventful journeys over, the dining room, I swear, no longer looked like velvet.

           

But now, I write from London, at a desk that was once Victor’s, in a room illuminated by my lamp alone, and I begin to wonder what my story will be.  The night fog is choking as it blankets the city and not for the first time, I miss the Mediterranean air.  I always find myself missing the Mediterranean air when I am apart from it.  Rather, I miss _who_ is in the Mediterranean air.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stanza comes from Rossetti's 'Woodspurge.'


	3. Transfigured Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain  
> Its very parents, evermore expand  
> To bed the passion's full-grown birth remain,  
> By Art's transfiguring essence subtly spanned  
> And from that song-cloud shaped as a man's hand  
> There comes the sound as of abundant rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions of death in childbirth in this chapter.

2 December. Michele

 

       I had woken later than the other house guests, at least the two that had arrived.  Having been informed that I missed the breakfast that was prepared by the elder of Victor’s Russian friends, Georgi, who was carrying a stack of newspapers preserved by the deceased actor (ones featuring reviews of his shows), I was directed to the the third story of the house where Victor’s room was.  I was surprised so see the fourth guest at long last.  By the foot of the dead man’s bed perched an unfortunately familiar young man.  He laughed in the somber room and looked at me in the doorway before anyone else did.

           

“Mickey!” Only my sister called me that.  “Do you remember me? I stayed with you and your sister when singing in Italy!”

           

Jean-Jacques Leroy.  The King, as he was called.  He sang in youth choirs in his childhood and starting with his teenaged years, he was an opera singer from Montreal, known most prominently for singing in Paris.  By the time he was seventeen years of age, he managed to develop something of an expansive following.  He was never a lead, but his charming good looks set him apart from the rest of the performers.

  

One night, the rumors said, that one of his performances was nearly composed of errors.  And then he vanished, completely disappeared from the scene.

           

“I did not suspect Victor to invite you of all people.  Did he not call you boring or, at the very least, uninteresting?”

           

He laughed again and sat forward.

           

“Well, he deemed me worthy enough of this little writer’s studio he wished for us to form here.  Though I hope you do not mind if I brought an additional guest.”

           

He pointed toward Leo who sat on the floor beneath the window with one of Victor’s hats balanced on his head, and on his lap perched a young girl, who seemed to be not even three years of age.  The American laughed at the small child, bopping his finger to her nose.

           

“My daughter, Jeanne.”  The Canadian continued as I felt my jaw loosen.

           

“I had no idea you had a wife.”

           

“I had a fiancée.”

I felt the Czech man’s hand on my shoulder as he dropped a pile of letters on my lap, as if trying to pull my attention away from the Canadian’s train of thought.

           

“These are love letters. You know better English than I. The other two thought these would be the keepsakes of Victor’s you’d want most. You write love poems, right?”

           

“Love poems” was a strong phrase.  Poems about love, yes, but love poems, no.

And yet I took the stack, held together by a navy blue ribbon.  I would read them later, I told myself, but for the moment I allowed myself to look around the room, truly taking into view the cast and characters that would partake in our artistic workshop.  The small-smiled American, bouncing the Canadian’s bastard on his lap, his thick hair falling around his shoulders.  The young Czech man who sat nervously beside me, eagerly anticipating whether or not I would accept his offer to read the deceased Russian’s letters.  The Canadian, still lounging on the floor, propped up on his elbows now with a crooked grin.

           

“Move it, Crispino!”

I jumped at the bark behind me, craning my head back to see the angry, pointed features of the youngest temporary resident, the student.

           

“My apologies,”

           

“Georgi and I are going to read you Victor’s wishes for the work you are encouraged to produce while here. Not that I want to. You can figure it out yourselves, for all I care.”

           

“It seems to me you do care if you’re so impassioned,” I heard Emil murmur behind me though I chose not to comment. However, my lips did curl into a smile against my own efforts.  The blonde young man, boy really, only glared and cleared his throat, before being joined by the other Russian man.  Georgi possessed a delicate handsomeness that he seemed determined to contrive into a mature, perhaps even mysterious, demeanor he did not have, despite being over twenty years of age. He coughed to get our attention.

           

“As you are well aware, Victor did not leave behind a will, but he did provide Yuri and myself with this final note he wrote on his deathbed for Yuri and myself to read to you.  The note is as follows:

           

“Michele, Leo, Jean-Jacques, and Emil.  You are listening to this now which means I am dead.  For that, I am sorry.  You are here because I find each of you to be gifted artists and creators and I would like you to produce a fine piece of art, in my name, in my honor.  Please, use this house, this home I once loved, as inspiration.  Allow my presence to move through you.  I believe you can be great.  Greater than you’ve dreamed.  My companion, Yuuri, should arrive after some weeks to observe your process.  Do take your time.  My friend, Georgi, and student, Yuri, are here sorting through some belongings and polishing off my unfinished business.  You may create within the forms you are most comfortable, or branch out into new styles.  I trust it will be stunning.  Create, my friends, spin tales and lies and earn your glory.  I have only faith.”

           

Georgi lowered the letter and looked at the lot of us with a sigh.  We stared at each other and then the Russian man.  The whole ordeal suddenly seemed very real, as opposed to a nebulous concept or future goal.  With that, one of the servants popped her head in to inform us that lunch was prepared.  Emil could not have fled the room faster and Jean-Jacques, scooping his daughter up off of the American’s lap.  I staggered to a more upright position.

“What happened to the Canadian’s fiancée?” I asked of Leo once the others had left the room.  He stared at me as if aghast I did not know.

           

“Isabella? She died in childbirth.  She was only seventeen.  It was quite the scandal in North America when word got out that she was pregnant.  When we don’t want to talk about ourselves, we talk about Canadians, so we all knew everything in my parts.  They were set to be married to legitimize their child, but he had to go back to Paris, so they had to postpone.  He returned to Canada as soon as he heard.  He wasn’t there when she died, but they just dropped the kid in his arms.  Real heartbreakin’, ain’t it?” It all made sense.

           

“That’s why he left the opera?”

           

“You’re quicker to catch on than I thought.  Maybe you are just as interested in the lives of people who aren’t your sister.”

           

And then I was alone in the room, holding Victor’s letters.  Perhaps Victor was right.  Maybe his life and very sense of being, so grand, and marvelous, with his rose-colored suits and silver hair, would provide the inspiration I needed.  Perhaps blue eyes would replace violet.


	4. Three Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I looked and saw your eyes  
> In the shadow of your hair,  
> As a traveller sees the stream  
> In the shadow of the wood;  
> And I said, “My faint heart sighs,  
> Ah me! to linger there,  
> To drink deep and to dream  
> In that sweet solitude.”

Jean-Jacques.

       

We arrived in the early hours of the morning.  Jeanne had fallen asleep in the carriage that picked us up from the docks and I stayed awake, watching the London sun begin to rise.  When we were on water, I slept.  I didn’t see her.  I didn’t hear her.  I saw only water and felt only Jeanne in my arms.  But once we were on land, I did not feel that safety.  The dimly lit streets wound and wrapped around each other as we rode.  In every alley I saw black hair.  Even at the door of Victor’s address, when we were greeted by a pair of angry green eyes and pursed lips, a bark of a welcome.

           

“You brought your kid.” The boy’s lip curled up into a distasteful sneer. “I didn’t know you even had a kid.”

           

“She’s a sweet child.  She can stay in the room with me and will be no bother.”

 _Jeanne wards off ghosts_ , I did not say.

           

“Fine.  Put your belongings away. The servants are making breakfast. The lot of you can humor yourselves in Victor’s chamber when you are done. He has plenty of discarded items.”

           

The boy didn’t even lead me into the house, simply expecting me to find my own bearings.  I closed the door behind me, placing Jeanne, now beginning to wake up, on the ground and looked around.  The house was very Victor.  There was no other way to say it.  The walls were draped in silk wallpaper, the railing on the staircase marble and spiraling upwards.  He didn’t feel dead the same way she did.

           

We found the dining space soon enough, the first two to sit down.  I placed Jeanne on the chair next to me and she stared at her empty plate.

           

“The fourth artist.” The voice was a slightly amused one, but not maliciously so.  When I looked up from Jeanne’s empty plate I made eye contact with the pleasant features of a tan skinned man with brown hair that hung around his shoulders.  His accent was distinctly American.

           

“Is that what they’re calling me? You know, I explicitly requested to be listed as the King.”

           

“Oh, Jean-Jacques, I know you.  You have a name and a title and we all know it.” He laughed good naturedly (or so I presumed it to be good-natured) and sat on the chair across from me, curling his fingers into the shape of Js.  My curtain-call signature.

           

“And you are? A friend of Victor?”

           

“Leo de la Iglesia. Victor and I met throughout my upbringing. I’m no artist.”

           

“De la Iglesia, you say? Quite the American name.

           

“There are many ways to be American these days.” He then drew his attention to Jeanne. “And who are you, tiny friend?”

           

“Jeanne,” came the squeaky reply.

           

“Cute kid you got there.”

           

“She takes after her mother.  All sensitivity.”

He didn’t say anything to that and instead he nodded, patiently, with a small smile that seemed to understand.  The other guests had not yet come down when we started eating.  The American and I whispered our own forms of grace, before he looked up at me again.

           

“Don’t you think it’s peculiar? How strange Victor’s friends are. Yuri and Georgi. The two Russians. They seem…pretty set on keeping control of this whole situation.  All of you being forced to write or paint or do whatever it is you do in Victor’s memory? Is that the kind of person Victor was?”

           

“Don’t think he liked me much so I can’t say.”

Leo was about to respond when a pale man with a downy beard walked in.

           

“Emil, Jean-Jacques, Jean-Jacques, Emil. Emil is from Prague and Jean-Jacques is from Canada.”

           

“Is Michele down yet?” The pale man’s gaze around the table answered his question for him as he sat down.

           

“Well pleasure to meet you too.”  The American stepped on my foot at that comment.

We ate in pleasant (pleasant enough, at least) silence before the small blonde young man strode up.  He stood in such a way that he tried to age himself up, furrowing his brows to look like an adult instead of a boy.  I was a boy once too.  He seemed just barely younger than I was (maybe a year or two) when I was given Jeanne.  Seventeen.  I was seventeen years of age.  I am not so sure I am an adult now.

“Get up.  All of you.  The faster you can take whatever of Victor’s belongings you want and hole yourselves away to write the better.”

Just as he had before when he let me in, he left the room before any of us could stand.  The room, itself, once we found it, was expansive.  The American sat at the window, looking out at the city street below.

“This corner of London sure takes its time waking up in the morning.”  Jeanne walked up to his ankles, tugging at his pant leg before I could stop her.  He laughed and looked down at her. “You want to get a look at the street?”

She nodded and he looked at me, as if to confirm he could pick her up.  I nodded and he picked her up and pointed at the park across the street.

“You see the swans over there in the pond? They just look like white shapes from back here but they’re real pretty up close.”

“You have pretty hair.” She tried to tug at his brown locks.

“Jeanne, that’s rude.  Ask politely.” I attempted to scold her.

“Don’t worry. She’s being gentle.”  The American put her down and sat on the bench overlooking the street, picking up the various statuettes, ones that appeared to be crafted in a style belonging in Versailles.  They were all porcelain poodles, sitting primly, snouts in the air.

The fair young man started digging through the drawers, pulling out a neatly wrapped stack of letters.  He pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply before taking a moment to cough into a silk handkerchief he produced from his pocket. It seemed very in Victor’s nature to drown his letters in cologne.

“They smell like perfume.  Love letters, no?” He started fingering through the notes. “My English is not good enough for these."

 “Not much of a letter-writer.” Leo commented from his window spot, now performing something of a puppet show for Jeanne with the poodle figurines.  Jeanne’s eyes lit up and she laughed and I thought of her.

“Not much of a lover these days.” I stepped back to the closet, trying to see if Victor left behind any coats that would tickle my fancy.  I did not find much of anything.  Red is far more my color than the greys and blues in the actor’s closet.  I sat to read one of his books, but, alas, it was in Russian.  The man from Prague sat, still holding the letters.

When the fourth guest entered at long last, disheveled from sleep, Emil was quick to hand the stack of cards out.

“I did not suspect Victor to invite you of all people.  Did he not call you boring or, at the very least, uninteresting?”

What a charming greeting.

“Well, he deemed me worthy enough of this little writer’s studio he wished for us to form here.  Though I hope you do not mind if I brought an additional guest.”

He looked toward the window where the puppet show in the window had now ended.

“My daughter.” 

           

“I had no idea you had a wife.” I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.  The man from Prague knew.  The American knew.  They treated me with care and not like a king because they knew.  But this man, this stranger from Italy. He did not.  I chose not to comment on the nature of his letters.

           

“I had a fiancée.”

The man from Prague, with his soft, sweet eyes, walked up to the other man.

“These are love letters. You know better English than I. The other two thought these would be the keepsakes of Victor’s you’d want most. You write love poems, right?”

I made a mental note to thank him later.

           

The two Russians entered the room and read Victor’s letter to us.  I don’t remember any of the words.  I wasn’t thinking about Victor.  Even in daylight, the hall behind the pair stretched on. I saw dark hair.  I always saw dark hair.

           

“You weren’t listening to the letter.” The blonde young man hissed in my general direction once we all left.

           

“I was processing it. Don’t you worry about me.”

           

“Don’t be condescending. There were orders. You’re going to follow them.”

           

“Dead men tell no tales, kitty cat.  Isn’t that what Victor called you? The little tiger that followed him around from show to show.”

           

He sighed and pushed past me, making a deliberate effort to prove his distaste.

I laughed genuinely this time.

           

After lunch, we gathered in the sitting room.  The blonde was not there, but the other man, Georgi, was, sitting at the desk by the window.  I think he was only pretending not to listen to us.

           

“How does one write about a man he met once?” Emil stared at the typewriter he had brought with him, seated on the floor with the typewriter on the coffee table before him.  “We were not friends. He was an actor. He performed in my city. We dined once or twice. He offered to read my writing. He carried on.”

           

Michele looked up from one of the actor’s letters.

           

“He stayed with my sister and I once.  Charmed all of Napoli.  As he does.  Brought his companion with him.  Yuuri.  The man he met in Japan.   He took a liking to my sister.”

           

“Between the group of us, I don’t think you have to worry about him taking a liking to your sister.  Either of them. Don’t the letters prove that?” The American raised his brows.  The Italian quickly looked back to the letters, hiding a blush that spread across his cheeks.  We tended to our own business.  Jeanne and I went for a walk by the park, so she could see the swans the American pointed out earlier.  She held my hand and shuffled beside me along the pond.  She never knew her mother.  Perhaps it was best that way.  Never knew what it meant to lose her.  How strange it is to lose a lover and then lose a friend, if Victor could ever be called friend.  He was more of a force, an entity that collided with the world, bursting into an existence larger than life itself.  You could know him without ever meeting him.  And yet we had met.  Isabella was no such presence.  She passed through life and she breathed against my neck and held my hand and conceived a child with me and left that child and I alone.  The dead haunt. 

           

Jeanne and I stayed by the pond until all others in the park had left and I carried her back to the manor.  The blonde was waiting by the door with pursed lips and crossed arms but he said nothing.  I wanted to hear his barbed words.  They made me wish I was younger again.

           

In the evening, the lot of us lounged.  The American sat with his guitar, singing.

                      

                        “ _As I went down to the river to pray,_

_Studying about that good old way_

_And who should wear the starry crown_

_Good Lord, show me the way_ ,”

An American spiritual.  His voice was not trained, but it seemed his words were a prayer.  Michele listened intently, leaning in with each line.  The song seemed so out of place in the London manor.  He was my age, born in the years after that war between brothers.  I retired to bed before he could finish the song and fell asleep to the final verses.

                        “ _Oh brothers let’s go down,_

_Let’s go down, come on down_

_Come on brothers, lets go down_

_Down to the river to pray”_

           

I did not see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem and title come from Rossetti's "Three Shadows"  
> Also! The use of the same dialogue from the previous chapter is, in fact, meant to indicate that the same conversations happened.
> 
> Leo's knowledge of folk spirituals is really important to me. His relationship to spiritual music is really poignant in canon, so I want to emulate that.


	5. Penumbra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group goes for a walk but are quickly brought back to the manor where Emil and Michele talk
> 
>  
> 
> I did not look upon her eyes,  
> (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise,  
> 'Mid many eyes a single look,)  
> Because they should not gaze rebuke,  
> At night, from stars in sky and brook.

_5 December, Michele_

           

We left at midday to explore some of the city, in an effort not to create our art in the house.  I brought my sketchbook as I could not find the proper inspiration for writing.  We trusted the Canadian with directions, which was likely a grave mistake.  He swaggered out before us, standing tall and twirling a cane with a brass lion as a top, snarling and sapphire eyed.  He walked completely fine on his own.  The cane was for show, to the surprise of absolutely no one.  He kept his back to us as he walked but did not cease talking.  Only the American seemed to listen, walking some steps behind Jean-Jacques, nodding intently as the braggart chattered.  Seeing him out and about like this, this wildly-gesticulating dandy, so determined to prove his navigation knowledge of London, led him to wonder just where the divide between JJ the once great performer and Jean-Jacques the near-widower truly resided.  Was this a glimmer of the man who was once upon a time not haunted?

           

Emil walked beside me in something of a blissful silence.  J never quite understood how he could be so content at all times.  Even just that morning when we had gathered in the parlor to discuss our ideas for our creations, he only chirped about and complimented the others.  He even praised Jean-Jacques’ idea about an aristocrat that travels to the orient and both seduces and is seduced by a young man there.  It was evident Jean-Jacques only just then configured the idea, given the mischievous gleam I caught in his eyes.  Not only that, but such a novel would undoubtedly result in his imprisonment, but it was known between the group of us that his words would pierce too closely to the reality of our dearly departed friend.  And yet Emil only laughed and leaned in, as if begging Jean-Jacques to tell him more. 

           

We caught the American writing that morning, as well.

           

“I have a friend in Hong Kong.” He said when Jean-Jacques all but attempted to snatch the paper from his grip.  “I informed him that I would write him about how the London air is treating me.”

           

Jean-Jacques did not press further.  The American was, after all, a warmly-mannered man, faithful.  I cannot help but wonder if we had all taken to him because of that steady devotion.  Compared to Jean-Jacques and even Victor’s peculiar friends, he brought a certain peace to the dark house.

           

“Behold Covent Garden. It is far from the humble market places you have in Prague and Naples, and I will dare not even question where my own country’s neighbors to the south do their shopping.  I, for one, will be positioning myself on one of those café tables in hopes that one of the muses, if she is not too busy, will bless me with the gift of poetry.  And perhaps I, myself, can inherit Victor’s proud title.”

           

He started to swagger off again, leaving the three of us.

           

“I don’t much want to write at this moment while we are here.” Emil commented looking around.  I could not help but notice him tugging at his collar, exhaling slowly.  I swore I saw a bead of sweat on his forehead but I did not say a word.  “On second thought, I am going to join Jean-Jacques.” He flashed a smile and offered a salute with his hand.

           

The American and I watched Emil walk to the café where Jean-Jacques had made himself at home, languidly lounging in one of the chairs.  A young woman waved at me, petite with fair eyes and dark hair.  She looked like a fairer version of Sara and with a quiet, single laugh she curtsied at me.  For a mild winter day, the market was only somewhat occupied.  And for that I am grateful, because I was ripped from my silent interaction with the young woman by a violent coughing sound from the direction toward which Emil had walked.  The man from Prague was keeled over coughing into a handkerchief.  By the time the three of us from our opposite directions stepped over, he had ceased his coughing, quickly pocketing the handkerchief and rising.

           

“Do not worry. I’m used to this.” He said with a dismissive laugh, but the sweat I had seen beginning to bead on his forehead just moments before was blanketing his face.

           

“No that ain’t ok, buddy. Come on. Let’s get you home.” Leo had immediately slung one of Emil’s arms around his shoulders and gestured for me to do the same.  I held his hand in place and he squeezed mine in return as Jean-Jacques led us back.

           

We were met by the wide-eyed stare of Georgi who stood in the doorway with young Jeanne balanced in one arm. He could only open his mouth before Jean-Jacques pushed through, allowing Leo and I to help Emil up the stairs.

           

“I will go see what the servants can do. Maybe go fetch a doctor?” Leo offered and Emil only shook his head, combing his sandy hair, now stiffening with drying sweat, out of his eyes.

           

“I come down with these fevers all the time.  Do not worry. A cool cloth should do the trick.”

I went to get the cloth and by the time I returned, Leo had exited, leaving Emil and myself.

           

“Do you want company?” I offered and he only smiled, almost eagerly, as if I had asked the ideal question. I sat on the chair beside the bed and picked up the sketchbook I had deposited on the bedside table when I went to fetch the cloth.  “I can spare some time. Not much. But I can.”

           

“It’s funny isn’t it?” He asked.

           

“What is?”

           

“That Victor wants all of us to write about him.  Or rather be inspired by him but I don’t think there exists much of a difference between the two.”

           

“He already achieved some sort of greatness already. And yet he wants us to achieve ours through him and somehow further his celebrity.”

           

Emil laughed.

           

“Well if anything, it’s pushing me to write a novel for once.   I have the ideas out there. I’ve just only ever produced short stories.  Ideally, I would produce a great book, a Pygmalion-like story, you know, the sculptor whose creation came to life? Except the main character is the creation, an automaton who gains sentience. And perhaps love.”

           

His eyes gleamed as he spoke. And he leaned toward me as he talked, his words growing faster and faster.

           

“Would Victor be the machine?”

           

“Well, originally I was the automaton. At least in my mind.  But I suppose I should tailor it.  Maybe Victor is the creator, inspiring the machine.  Though I want it to be a love story too. “

           

He leaned back against his pillows, coughing quietly this time and looking up at the ceiling.  I could not tell what he was thinking, but I could see the ghosts of a smile breaking through at his lips, as he ran his fingers along the downy beard covering his chin and jaw.

           

“And you?” He continued. “What is your grand masterpiece?”

           

“I have not yet planned that far ahead.” I looked at my sketchbook.  There were only eyes drawn.  Upon this glance, I realized they were not Sara’s eyes, but certainly not Victor’s either. “I would like a change in reputation.  That is all.”

           

“Ah yes, the man who paints his sister. Who writes poetry in her honor. No human has lilac eyes and yet your central heroine always does.  And somehow we know who she is.”

           

I don’t take to being read well by others and yet, Emil’s boyish charm brought a smile to my own lips. He looked at me with arched brows as I blinked in silence.  His hand was out of the blanket and something told me, urged me, to grip it. 

           

“You’re not a half-bad artist, Michele.  I’d have liked to be ranked alongside you one day.”

           

There was something wistful about his words and I felt my expression soften and I slid off the chair so I crouched beside the bed.  He pulled the hand that gripped his up to his lips.

           

“You are merely eighteen years of age, Emil.  You have all the time in the world.”

With my words he only held my hand closer to his lips.  He said nothing for a while.

           

“Why are you still here? You said you could not spare much time.”

           

“Maybe I spoke too harshly too soon.”

           

“You go sketch your sister downstairs,” Emil gestured toward my sketchbook, “I’m going to sleep some more.  I will return this evening. Again, this is all normal for me at this point.”

           

As I gathered my sketchbook and walked out the room, Emil coughed again and as I closed the door behind me, I noticed a small spattering of red on the white fabric.

           

Emil did not have time. Emil was dying. Consumption.  The fever, the near fainting, the blood.  I felt my heart sink.  And when I looked down at the sketchbook again, I finally noticed the eyes were his own.

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title and poem come from Rossetti's 'Penumbra.'


	6. Parted Presence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter on religion, love, memory, and mystery.
> 
> "O love, how sweet is your voice!  
> To-day your lips are afar,  
> Yet draw my lips to them, love.  
> Around, beneath, and above,  
> Is frost to bind and to bar;"

_Jean-Jacques_

I hadn’t been to confession since Jeanne was born.  I did not have the time or the patience or the desire to beg for forgiveness.  I did not wish to feel at fault for my child’s bastardy and near orphan-hood.  And yet there, in London, I went to confession.

           

“I see the ghost of my deceased fiancée,” never escaped my lips.  The air in St. Paul’s was heavy and warm and even while there was some winter blue sky, none crept in.  I had forgotten the heavy cleansing that seemed to accompany the dizzying impacts of the scent of incense.  I remembered peace as the words tumbled out of my mouth.  The booth was warm and smelt of sweat and wood.  I confessed in English after so many years of confessing in French.  And yet the words fell out and I felt free.  Maybe Isabella would no longer appear to me.

           

When I exited the cathedral, Leo was sitting on the steps with Jeanne, each of them holding a bun in their hands.  Jeanne was devouring hers and the American only chuckled.  He looked up at me when I approached.

           

“She said she was hungry. Hope you don’t mind I bought her some sweet bread.”  Jeanne’s face and hands were coated in the buttery cinnamon meant to cover the bread.  She looked content.  Both of them did.  I hadn’t before noticed the smile that seemed to play across the American’s face with an honest ease.  He offered to walk me to the Cathedral and watch over Jeanne while I confessed.  The man from Naples and the man from Prague had wanted to stay at the manor.

“You don’t need to do this out of pity, you know.”

“I’m aware, but I am doing no such thing.  I wanted the air and I wanted the company.  The other two cannot seem to tear their gaze away from one another.”

He shrugged and chuckled.

“Do you want to cut through some of the parks on the way back or do you just want to burrow away with our new companions?”

“I could use the walk.” He replied with a smile, soft and warm. 

We walked in something of a content silence.  He did not ask about confession.  Jeanne wanted to be held by him as we made our way through the park and he only laughed, holding her with one arm.

“Are you a man of faith? I heard you singing spirituals some nights ago.”

Leo smiled as he thought of an answer, trying to piece together the words.

“I see God in everything and I love everything for that reason.  I want to capture that essence in all I do.”  A serene gleam came into his eye with each word.

“And yet you say you are not an artist.  Did you ever consider writing with us?”

“Perhaps some day.  I am not quite as moved by the spirit of Victor as I am by the Holy Spirit.”

“I never said I was moved by Victor, myself.”

“Though I do not believe you are the arrogant king you once were either.”

I knew what he was saying.

“You can say her name, Leo.”

“Then something tells me that your muse is Isabella.”

He was not wrong. 

We walked shoulder to shoulder, our breath crystalizing in unison in the frigid air.  When he walked, he wove his fingers in and out of each other, his hair, pulled back off his face, bouncing ever so slightly against the nape of his neck.  He smiled at all passersby and then he smiled at me.

When we returned, Emil no longer appeared to be on the brink of death and he sat beside the Italian on the dead man’s velvet couch.  He leaned against Michele as the latter sketched.  When I got closer I noticed it was a painting of a young woman with dark hair and a six pointed star necklace strung around her neck. Her lips were parted, as if mid gasp. His sister.  Sara.  While Michele was hot-headed and full of determination and protection when I first met the pair, Sara was soft-spoken, compassionate.  It seemed we were all children then. Even then Michele would lunge at any man who dared even speak to Sara.

           

“What a lovely portrait of Victor you’re drawing there.”  He slammed the sketchbook closed when I approached, narrowing his eyes with a sigh.

“I _have_ been writing as a matter of fact.  Emil can confirm this.”

The man from Prague only laughed and I saw him squeeze Michele’s shoulder. Georgi walked in then, running his gaze across all of us with an arched brow.  I hadn’t before noticed, but his features were kind, sympathetic.

“Where did the small angry one go?  He is typically prepared for some scathing remark right beside you.”  Emil’s light hearted question did, in fact, draw my attention to the absence of young Yuri and yet Georgi just stared at us in half-disbelief.

“He has errands.” He spoke like a child who had just learned what sarcasm was and was testing it out for the first time and failing, sounding more flabbergasted than condescending.

The afternoon passed quietly.  The servants had opened the blinds so the parlor was well-lit, all of the colors of Victor’s fancies alive once more.  None of us wrote or sketched.  Instead, with the start of the evening hours, Leo played a wordless song on his guitar and Emil started to dance, even coaxing Michele to dance with him.  Michele sat on the couch, gnawing his lip in distaste until Emil stepped closer with an outstretched arm.  With exaggerated, perhaps even entirely feigned, exasperation, Michele consented, allowing Emil to pull him against his chest, in a half-hearted attempt at a playful waltz, the Italian man’s hand on the other’s shoulder, allowing Emil to lead him.  Behind closed doors, we said nothing.  When they locked lips, they stopped dancing entirely, as if they were frozen and the world around them was just as motionless. And then they danced again until Emil sat down far too quickly.  The fair-haired man quickly produced a handkerchief from his pocket, coughing furiously into the silk fabric and Michele only sat next to him, hand to his back.  Silently, he coaxed Emil to retire and, once he had, Michele resumed sketching.  Leo stopped playing.  Yuri had still not returned.

At last, the servants had prepared Jeanne her own room.  They even placed the poodle statues on her beside tables.  And so my room was my own again.  I attempted to write but I was never much of an author.  I could write no play about Victor.  I must have dozed off but was awoken by a noise on my window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Victor’s house was old, or so I told myself, but then the tapping became more rapid, more desperate.  I knew.  Despite all efforts to look away, to keep facing the door, the safety of the hallway, facing the oil lamp that still burned indicating I had not been asleep for very long. I lost to willpower and turned.

           

And there she was.

Her hair was only half styled, falling out of its pinned curls, several locks tumbling down her shoulders around her face.  Her skin was so pale, always so pale, but it looked blue as she pressed herself to my glass, standing on nothing but air.  She still wore the dress she was buried in, the gown she was meant to wear as a bride, the lace collar almost choking her.  And her eyes.  Those eyes, bright blue and always so full of excitement, stared blankly as if made of glass. Isabella.  Isabella.  Isabella. I stumbled out of the bed.  She was always so alluring, so capable of pulling me closer.  And the closer I walked, the more like herself she began to look.  I could almost see color in her cheeks and life in her eyes.  Her laugh like one thousand bells chiming just for me.

           

“ _Jean-Jacques. Mon cher. Mon cher. Let me in. Please_.”  She ceased tapping and only held her palm to the glass, fingers stretched wide.  I put my hand against the glass, my own palm larger than hers, hand to hand.

“Isabella.”

She almost smiled and I remembered how soft her lips were, pillowed and always broad in a grin. We stayed there a moment, palm to palm, eyes locked and she looked alive.  Isabella. My Isabella.  I felt tears running down my cheeks and even as she softly smiled, I swear tears were welling in her own eyes.

“ _Mon Cher_.” We locked eyes and the half-smile faded, her eyes not yet glass again, but wide.  As the look on her spectral visage grew increasingly panicked, I was startled once again by a loud thudding noise echoing above me.  My eyes shot to the door, the hallway now no longer a comfort.  I looked back to the window and Isabella was gone.

            _THUD. THUD. THUD. SCREEECHHHHH._

The noise came from above me again and with a final breath and final stare at the window, I snatched the lantern from the bedside table and bolted to the stairs.

       

“The attic,”

I almost heard her voice tell me.  Intuition or Isabella, I know not which, but I ran up the stairs as fast as I could.  The air felt silent and still as I reached the attic door.  There was no banging.  No nothing.  It was even a struggle to push my hand through the air, wavering before the brass knob leading to the attic room.  As my hand nearly gripped it, a weight was pressed down on my shoulder.  I was too startled to scream, spinning around and nearly falling backwards.  My lantern illuminated no other face than that of the angry young man, his fierce eyes somehow even a more resplendent shade of green in the lamplight.

           

“You’re back.” The words tumbled out of my mouth.

“Do not ever attempt to enter this room again.” He hissed, and then exclaimed, “Do you understand me?”

           

He yanked me down the stairs.  Despite him being some three or four years my junior and much shorter than me, I could not resist his efforts as he nearly flung me back on to the second story landing.

“Why are we not allowed in that room? What’s in there?”

“None of your business. It does not matter.” He stepped closer, shoving a hand in my face as if to stop me from talking.

“There was thumping. And a screech!”

“A tree branch had been blown through the window and thumped against the floor until breaking off from the rest of the tree.  Georgi heard and I went up to go fix it.”

“That does not explain why you don’t want us in there though.”

He looked at me with pursed lips, not only distaste, but pure anger in his eyes.

“Do you really want to know? Are you so very curious?”

“Yes! We were invited here in the first place to sort through Victor’s possessions.”

“That is where he kept his more…intimate treasures from his companion.  We are waiting until Yuuri returns so he can take them, himself.  They are for his eyes alone.  Understood? Is your thirst to play detective quenched?” He growled.

           

I nodded but said nothing and he shoved past me, disappearing down the stairs once more.  The oil in my lamp flickered low then.  I only looked in my chamber, the door still open.  The window just a window.  I could not be alone and so I dragged myself, heavily, down the hall to the next occupied chamber.  I knocked once.  No response.  I was about to knock again when the door opened and I was greeted by weary but oh so welcoming features.

           

“Jean-Jacques? What is it?” He yawned, running his fingers through his hair, disheveled from sleep.

“I cannot bear to be alone right now.  May I stay here for the rest of the night.”

           

Leo smiled ever so softly and stepped aside.

           

“Take off your day clothes. You don’t want to sleep in a waistcoat and trousers.” He half-murmured then added, “I won’t look if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

He walked toward his chest, producing a night shirt from one of the drawers.

“So you don’t have to go back to your room for one.”

He returned to the bed and waited patiently, saying nothing as I felt myself fall under the warmth of his blankets.

           

“Thank you.” I looked at him.

“Do you wish to talk?” His voice was soft, understanding.

“Can you just sing?”

“Do you have any preferences?”

“Do you recall any Spanish songs?”

“I lost my tongue long ago.”

“Then sing to me about God then.”

He did and I felt myself fall heavy against his chest, my hand under the same pillow on which his head rested, his own hand holding his head, itself.  He found my fingers.  He sang but I do not recall every lyric.  The last words I heard before I fell into a dreamless sleep, pressed against another body, warm and welcoming, were,

            “Everywhere I go, God stays with me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter and excerpt come from Rossetti's "Parted Presence."
> 
> Religion matters to me. In particular, my head canon that the Crispino twins are Jewish matters to me. I'm Jewish. Let me have this.
> 
> Did Leo sing 'Still Alive?' YES HE DID.
> 
> Also, OOOOHHH GHOSTS


	7. Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young woman named Anya joins the party
> 
>  
> 
> It was a careless life I led  
> When rooms like this were scarce so strange  
> Not long ago. What breeds the change,—  
> The many aims or the few years?  
> Because to-night it all appears  
> Something I do not know again.

Leo

When I awoke, Jean-Jacques was still in the room and he still slumbered.  His cheek must have moved to my pillow overnight so his sleeping face was the first thing I saw when I woke up.  He looked …content almost.  The brows that were either raised in pride or furrowed in what I assumed to be remembrance of Isabella were level, relaxed, his breathing even. His hair, raven hued and thick, fell along his forehead.  He was handsome.  I don’t believe I had properly noticed that before. I heard no talking downstairs which made me think that we were in no rush to commence the day’s activities.

“Jean-Jacques.” I whispered, finding his ankle with my foot. “It’s morning.”

He opened his eyes , steely blue and almost cloudy from sleep.  He looked at me with a lazy, bemused smile.

“Did I sleep too long?”

“No, I don’t think even the others are awake. I wanted to ensure you slept well enough. Though I realize now waking you up might not have been the best way to do that.” He laughed at my comment and found my foot with his own, moving to prop up on one elbow.

 “Well, I did. Thank you.  I –I would not have been able to if you had not been such a gracious host.” His eyes lit up for just a moment in what seemed to be gratitude.  Here was a man, a boy, he was my age, nineteen, who had been stripped of so much joy.  Here was a boy who found my hand and squeezed it, closing his eyes for just a moment.  And then we stayed like that.  Jean-Jacques fell against my chest and he felt so small.  This was not the dandy who was providing the tour of a city he barely knew.  I felt his breath through my palm as it rested against my shirt he had borrowed to sleep in.

I held Jean-Jacques in my arms and his skin felt warm from sleep and he said very little, if anything at all.  We were pulled apart by a voice at the door.

“Papa?” Jean-Jacques turned his head to face the little girl at the door.  One of the servants must have gotten her ready for the day because she stood in her little white day clothes. “Hi Leo.” She added in a quiet voice.

“Good morning little love.” He smiled warmly, light and life coming back into his eyes and he held his arm out and she sprinted toward the bed and immediately leapt into his arms.  He held her tightly, planting a kiss on her braided hair, smiling brightly and warmly. I moved to the corner of the bed when Jeanne peeked her head out from around Jean-Jacques’ arm.

“Hug from Leo?” She squeaked and Jean-Jacques turned to send an apologetic look but she had already thrown her arms around my neck.  A bright-eyed, pure-hearted child of God.  I never had a sister and certainly not a daughter, but if I did, I wish she would be like Jeanne.

Emil and Michele were downstairs, sitting side by side on the couch once more.  It seemed to have become their spot.  Michele was not sketching and, instead, only leaned against Emil who was curled over himself, shivering.  Michele moved to wrap and arm around him, pressing himself closer.  It was intimate.  Jean-Jacques, holding Jeanne with one arm, walked in to the room after me.  We stared at the couple, for yes, they were indeed a couple, a pair that had become so entwined and so devoted in such little time, for a few moments and they did not seem to notice, immersed in their own world.  And it was clear that we were not invited. 

            BANG BANG BANG.

A loud pounding echoed from the front door and all four of our heads snapped up.  Jean-Jacques and I got there first, even before the two Russians who were heard running down the stairs.

           

There at the door stood a tall woman with an elaborately styled head of black hair and pale eyes with a long, up-turned nose.  A lilac hat, white lace trimmed, with a white rose to the side was pinned to her head.  Even in the winter, she wore only a silk gown, the same color as the hat, and white lace gloves.  No coat.

“I am looking for Georgi Popovich. I know he is here. Where is he?” Her voice was sharp, heavily accented in the same way Victor’s once was.

“Can we help you? We have not seen him this mor—“

Jean-Jacques was cut off as the young woman shoved her way into the foyer, spinning once and calling.once more,

“Georgi! I know you can hear me! It’s Anya!”

“Anya!” He ran down the last flight of stairs, freezing once he nearly fell down the last step. “What are you doing here?”

“I have your possessions you left behind at the ballet. Take them.” She held out a neatly folded set of what appeared to be rehearsal gear with a pair of pointe shoes at the top.  Georgi stepped closer and took them, staring at her closely, opening his mouth, wordless, and then,

“Anya.” He said her name quietly this time. “Why are you in London?”

“Alexei and I were not dancing this season and decided to stay in his home here.  I figured you would bring what you left.”

“Well you’ve brought them now go back to Alexei.” He spoke quickly and she only sighed.

“Alexei has gone back to Paris. He no longer wishes to court me.  May I please stay here? I know you are in this house and I know it is massive.”

“We have company.”

“You have rooms.”

Yuri shoved forward at this point with a sigh, pulling Georgi back.

“Ignore the men writing. There is a room on the first floor you can stay in.”

Georgi stood there while Yuri led her away.

The four of us artistic types made our way back to the parlor.

“Who is that?” Emil whispered, all of us exchanging baffled glasses.  The young woman had reappeared, smiling ever so slightly, almost coyly, as she scanned the room.

“My name is Anya.  Surely your friend Georgi has told you all about me?”

Once she was met with blank stares she only laughed.

“None of us speak much to Georgi.  It surprises us he has friends.” None of us expected Emil to pipe up.  She laughed louder.

“He doesn’t whine for my presence? I am—”Her expression softened. “Pleasantly surprised.  That’s honestly relieving to hear.  I was worried. Do you mind if I sit? Or would I be interrupting your writing time?”

Emil motioned toward one of the arm chairs, before sitting down again, Michele all too quick to follow to sit beside him.  Jean-Jacques stared at them, a wistful expression dancing across his face.  I told him that I would take Jeanne on a walk to see the swans in the park and he nodded, silent.  I do not know which room he vanished in when the little girl and I left. 

Jeanne toddled beside me to the best of her abilities, requesting to be picked up only when we got to the pond.

“Is Papa happy?” She asked.  I felt my heart plummet.  She was too young to ask such questions.  Jean-Jacques, himself, was too young to have these questions asked about him, by his daughter no less.

“Not yet, little duckling.” I saw her eyebrows lace together in concern, thought, trying so desperately with her gentle little mind to understand.

“Does he love me?”

“With everything he has.” She was so young, asking questions no child of three should ask.  She only nodded and rested her cheek on my shoulder.  Jeanne and I stared at the swans and I told her stories about America.  Stories about the western territories.  Only some were true but her gaze brightened with an astounded intensity as I wove tales about horses and damsels and battles with draconic windmills.  I made myself into an American Don Quixote and she forgot about sadness for a glimmer of a moment.  We must have been there for the afternoon. Jeanne fell asleep before we walked home.

Emil was bedridden once more by the time we returned.

“A doctor has been sent for.” Yuri explained, standing tall, much taller than he had to.

Anya was sitting beside Michele.  He always seemed the type to soften around women, show a certain warmth very few of us got to see.  To him, all women were his sister.  Or so it seemed.  Anya, a complete stranger to him, spoke and he heard Sara’s words.

“Let him rest.” She whispered and he nodded. “You can see him once the doctor leaves.  Sleep will cure him.”

Yuri looked at me, and pulled me into the next room.  I was much taller than him and he had to tilt his chin up when speaking.

“Emil has consumption.  Keep the most distance you can. We will allow him to stay here while he writes.  He has known before he came.  I don’t know why he didn’t tell us, only making it more difficult for us to clean up after him when he goes. His fault.”

Even though his words were barbed, I heard his voice breaking.

 

I retired to my room by nightfall, not having much desire to dally the night away.  And as hoped, and almost as expected, a familiar lean figure emerged in my doorway and I found myself all too relieved to see those once playful blue eyes staring at me.

“May I stay in here again?”

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and quote come from Rossetti's "Jenny."
> 
> The last line is actually from Shakespeare's "The Tempest."


	8. The Honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And by the thorns and by the wind  
> The blossom that I took was thinn'd,  
> And yet I found it sweet and fair"
> 
> Michele writes to his sister

 

_My Beloved Sister,_

 

_It is with urgency that I write this letter to you.  Emil has been in bed for a week now.  The doctor came in on Sunday, clutching his handkerchief to his mouth as if he were about to come down with the plague simply from being in Emil’s presence.  I knew this was not the case.  I have been by his side day in and day out and have found myself unable to produce any worthy material.  None of us knew he had consumption when he first arrived, when we all first arrived, but he knew.  It was a secret between us when I first found out but he grew increasingly ill._

_A young woman arrived, a friend of one of the Russian men, former lover to be exact. Anya._

_“Is this Victor’s sick joke?” She asked Georgi in a hushed whisper.  I am not sure whether or not I was supposed to hear but it pushed me to start thinking.  What does come out of this mess? Glory? Replacing Victor in all his fancy and decadence?  He did not promise his house to whoever could produce the finest art.  No fortune, either.  And besides, who would be the judges? Yuri and Georgi? That boy is as interested in the lot of us as a housecat.  He only ever engages to prove he has claws.  And Georgi. I’m not even sure why he’s here in all frankness.  Yuuri has not even returned yet and he should have arrived by now to help us sort out the last details.  I’m beginning to wonder, Sara, if all of this was Victor’s idea to begin with? What if Yuuri, you recall, his companion from Japan, was the one orchestrating it? But what does he get out of it?  None of us have created anything.  Emil is too sick and Jean-Jacques is too haunted and he and the American are too wound up in each other’s lives anyway.  If it were a sick joke, whose is it?_

_Jean-Jacques and Leo had joined Emil and myself in Emil’s chamber.  He was fading in and out of sleep but found it comforting to listen to Jean-Jacques sing as Leo played the guitar.  The songs were in French._

_“They’re my daughter’s lullabies.”_

 

_Emil smiled and listened.  The Canadian has a good heart, I think.  He sings to his daughter every night like he sang to Emil then.  Leo’s started joining him.  I can hear the guitar from Emil’s chamber where I have taken to sleeping.  The two of us listen although we don’t understand the words.  He smiles and his face lights up.  I dare not tell the other two that we listen to their music.  It reminds me of how when we were children, the man with the accordion would walk up and down our street every night, singing as he played.  That was how we fell asleep every night for so long.  And then one night there was no music and we did not sleep.  There was no accordion music after that night but we adjusted to that as well.  When we leave this place, I will have to re-adjust again for some time.  Emil, I fear, will not._

_“Why do you suppose we’re here? Actually here? What is Victor trying to do?” I finally asked the others, one day after the other two had stopped singing._

_“Aren’t we supposed to be honoring Victor’s memory?” Leo arched his brows, though I saw a new sense of doubt crossing his expression._

_“_

_Well, yes. But how is he going to know? Or Yuuri for that matter? We have not seen him.”_

_The conversation stopped there once we heard footsteps running up the stairs, and pausing by the door.  We were, admittedly, relieved to find it was the woman, Anya, laughing.  She carried herself with a jovial ease, as she leaned in the doorway to catch her breath.  She was followed by another pair of footsteps, which we soon discovered to be Georgi, and she squealed, bolting up the next flights of stairs with him in pursuit._

_“Not in there! Back down!” We heard him laugh and they ran all the way back down.  I noticed Jean-Jacques prick his head up, alert, almost startled like a horse.  He froze, as if listening intently.  Emil’s coughing fit abruptly brought him back to reality and he quickly excused himself from the room, Leo following suit._

_“Those two spend quite a lot of time together.” Emil commented, watching as the American trailed after the Canadian.  “Do you suppose they are as close as you and I?”_

_I kissed him instead of answering his question even as I felt his sweat from fever through the fabric of his shit._

_“I have never been as close to someone before as you?”_

_“Other than your sister?” His eyes lit up with mischief.  I thought that would amuse you, Sara.  He does send his love. You would find him most charming I do not doubt.  He has sandy hair and a true gentleman’s beard, perfectly trimmed.  His eyes, though Sara, they are always illuminated.  Even as he lies in this bed they do not dim.  He told me he sees himself as more automaton than man.  I believe no such words for he loves and he loves like no other.  We kissed again and he laughed._

_“You feel feverish.  Like me.”_

_“It’s just the air in the room.” I told him._

_I do not know why Victor brought us here.  But he brought me to Emil and Emil to me.  I do not believe he will live much more but we are together as one.  I have started drawing him, drawing those eyes.   I have started believing in destiny and purpose, Sara.  No man has made me believe such things._

_“Did you know your eyes look violet in candlelight? They look beautiful” He told me.  I should like to have violet eyes.  How miraculous that would be.  If just so I could hold Emil’s gaze for just a bit longer._

_He said we should go to Barcelona.  All three of us.  I fancy the idea but I do not believe it could ever come to fruition.  For Sara, there is something I should confess.  He was not wrong when he said I felt feverish.  This morning, I coughed upon waking, only to find it stained my hand red.  With blood.  My own blood._

_Sara. I love you._

_Michele_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title and poem come from Rossetti's "The Honeysuckle." I picked that poem because I associate Michele with Quentin Compson who associates his sister Caddy with honeysuckle.
> 
> Find me on tumblr!  
> [my tumblr](http://www.werestillalive.tumblr.com)


	9. Adieu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Waving whispering trees,  
> What do you say to the breeze  
> And what says the breeze to you?  
> 'Mid passing souls ill at ease,  
> Moving murmuring trees,  
> Would ye ever wave an Adieu?"
> 
> This chapter has no summary.

As Emil grew weaker, we stopped writing and painting and creating. Leo and I kept Jeanne out of the room.

           

“I don’t want her to have to see death.” I had told Leo and he understood.  We stayed in the parlor most days, listening intently to the murmurs and whispers coming from Emil’s chamber two floors up, indistinguishable words interrupted by coughs that shook the whole house.  Michele cried. Or so we heard.  We sat in almost silence as I braided Jeanne’s hair as she waited patiently.

           

“I don’t think I’ve told you how much it warms my heart to see you with her.” Leo smiled and I could not stop my heart from beating ever so slightly faster.

           

“She’s all I have.”

 

Leo looked at me and reached his hand out.  His hair fell into his face but he did not bother to brush it aside.  Instead he looked at me.

           

“You got parents?”

           

“They died last year.  Only got to meet their granddaughter once.”

 

I averted my eyes.  I did not want to see any look of pity cross Leo’s face.  I would hate for him to pity me and yet I feared, still fear really, he did.

           

“Well you got me.”  I never noticed before he had a Southern accent and I especially had not noticed how much comfort it brought.  Americans.  “I mean it, both you and Jeanne got me. And when this whole mess is over the two of you can come back with me.  I have a friend in Hong Kong who shot in the traveling show with me, did a whole set of assassination themed shows, and he offered his family home knowing I don’t have much of a place of my own now.  We can be something of a family.”

           

He looked at me and what I read in his eyes was love.

           

What a strange family we would be.  But no doubt a nice one.  One of the servants came to offer to put Jeanne down for a nap.  She was a kind woman, one who seemed disinterested in our intricate web of personhood. And so Leo and I were left alone.  He took my hand and squeezed it, running his thumb along my skin.

           

I kissed him.  I don’t know what came upon me I promise you that but I kissed him.  His lips were chapped and I could taste orange on his tongue from breakfast.  He gasped and leaned in to the embrace.

           

“JJ,” he pulled away and whispered but did not finish his thought and leaned in, himself, this time and I closed my eyes.  I heard footsteps enter the room and pause but I only leaned closer thinking to myself that we could melt into each other, mold together as one.  I do not know when I heard the footsteps leaving the room.

 

We found ourselves entwined all that evening.  We did not go down for supper (I do not believe the others did either).  The pangs of sorrow permeating throughout my system dissipated, as if they fled my body with trickle of sweat that ran down my back.

 

“You aren’t so arrogant after all.” Leo peered at me with a smile, a mischievous one I had not seen before, but one full of affection.  He ran his fingers through his hair and it stuck out to the side, molded by sweat.

 

I don’t recall when we dozed off but I fell asleep knowing how it felt to be loved again.

 

I woke up in the early hours of the morning, needing to clear my head and the early winter air would accomplish that, even if it were just standing in front of the door for a moment.  I had only made it halfway down the stairs when I saw the all-too familiar figure on the landing.  She had made it inside.

 

“Jean-Jacques!” She gasped, her airy presence almost wavering with her breathy voice.  She looked…alive almost. As alive as a specter could look.  Her eyes were less sunken, her hair only slightly undone from its proper style.  She looked ill but not skeletal.  She drifted closer and held her hand out and we almost clasped fingers.  I swear I could feel her.

 

“Isabella.”

 

“Mon Cher. My king.” Our eyes locked and I only choked.  How unfaithful had I been? She no longer breathed.  This was an apparition before me, not my fiancée.  My fiancée lay beneath snow and earth in Montreal.  But no.   There she stood and she smiled, sadly, softly, as if she knew something I did not.  She was always so keen.

 

“I miss you Bella.” Her absence felt stronger than ever, a palpable agony punching my heart again and again. She stepped closer and did not pass through my arms.  I felt her. I smelt her lavender perfume and the jasmine oils she combed through her hair. Isabella. My Isabella.  And when she kissed me I felt her lips, cold, but still her lips.

 

A thunderous cough sounded throughout the house, ripping me from my embrace. It grew louder, interrupted by a gasp like a gust of wind.  I turned to Isabella whose eyes went wider and wider, her face metamorphosing from love to horror and she vanished before my eyes.

I turned to the stairs to the sound of the coughing though with each step it dimmed and then turned only into gasps.  At the bottom of the stairs they were slow, but with each step they grew faster and faster and as my hand made it to the door beside the top of the stairs, my hand touching the knob, a sob replaced the breathy whimpers, one that could not be restrained, bellowing and echoing.  I knew that cry for I had made it myself.  I flung open the door Georgi, Anya, and Yuri and Leo clutching Jeanne to his chest so she would not see, running to crowd behind me.  My vision blurred from the rush but I knew. I knew. I knew. I knew. I knew all too well that one figure cradled and shook another, bowed in terror and anger and heartbreak.

 

“ _Dead? No, she can’t be she can’t be she can’t be.  We are going to be married and it’s going to be beautiful and she is my queen and I am her king.  We are going to raise our child and live in Paris and love each other and love each other.”_

_“I’m sorry Monsieur Leroy. I truly am.”_

_“Don’t lie to me! Isabella would never craft such a cruel joke as this.”_

_“Would you like to meet your daughter?”_

_“I would like to see my fiancée! Where is she?”_

_There was no fiancée. She was gone gone gone. And when the handed the crying baby over both wails ceased, cries replaced with shallow gasps._

_Seventeen years had come and gone too quickly. No candle should be blown out when it is still tall._

 

 

At eighteen years old, Emil was one year older than Isabella had been, a year younger than Leo and I are now.  He was a novelist with dreams.  Dreams.  Aspirations.  Perhaps that was why we all were here.  Perhaps Victor had wanted us to breathe life to dreams that only danced in the backs of our minds. And he used his death, death, the most inspiring and evocative of life experiences, to open the doors for us, his own doors literally.  And yet.  There we crowded in the room as the Italian man howled, his pale eyes lavender from tears and candlelight.  And we stood in silence, frozen, watching.  

 

Emil was dead.

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, sorry about that!
> 
>  
> 
> Title and lines come from Rossetti's "Adieu."
> 
> Have I told you I have a tumblr? -->werestillalive


	10. He and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whence came his feet into my field, and why?  
> How is it that he sees it all so drear?  
> How do I see his seeing, and how hear  
> The name his bitter silence knows it by?
> 
>  
> 
> A long-awaited guest arrives.

 

 _Leo. 15 December_  

I had never seen a dead body until that day.  In all my years traveling with the show, no one got hurt and we took care to avoid any incidents.  When you know a man for just over a month, you don’t know how to mourn him.  I knew Emil was kind and that he was good and in the same timespan I said I could not get to know another person well enough to mourn them, he had grown to love Michele deeply and that the Italian man reciprocated the sentiment.

 

Michele had asked me to sing when I had visited Emil’s room to pay my respects to the dead man.  I expected Michele to be there, but did not expect him to be half-stretched on the bed beside the wax-like figure, whose skin was now greying.  It had only been a few days.

                       

“In my culture, religion, we don’t have many songs for the occasion.  They’re chants. Solemn. I want a melody.”  He sat up.  I knew several, all from my time back home.  I liked songs about the Lord. Found the most peace in them.  He listened and almost smiled.

 

“I hope that brought you some peace. May God bless you during this time.”

I began to walk away again but Michele stopped me.

 

“Will God forgive Emil and me? Will I see Emil again?”  His vibrant eyes brimmed with tears.  “All I want is to see Emil again, Leo. And I know my time is running out but I am so scared.”

I walked back in to the room, to the foot of the bed and Michele collapsed into my arms, his tears dampening my waistcoat.  “Time is running out,” he had said.  It began to hit me then that Michele, too, must have been sick.  What a cruel winter this must be.

“You will see him again. And it will be in Heaven.”

I saw the ghost of serenity pass across his face.

 

 

At long last, Yuuri had arrived, standing in the foyer with a heavy sigh.  I had greeted him first as I had urged Jean-Jacques to spend time with Michele.  The shared understanding would be of benefit.

“I am terribly sorry it took so long for me to arrive.  I arrive in London and I am greeted with this most dreadful news.”

 

“Well I can’t rightly say if your timing is impeccable or most inappropriate.”  He laughed quietly and I could not help but study his features.  When you spend your time traveling, you know what sort of expressions people make.  You can learn to read their emotions from how they laugh, how they watch.  I knew the face of a man in mourning.  Night after night I had grown to know that very visage.  He made no comment on what I had to say but I did not doubt he could read my won expression.  He was a nervous man, good-intentioned.  A variety of my companions from the show knew him better than I.  He was a well-known actor in his neck of the woods, though my knowledge of performance was most rooted in my own country and some parts of Europe.  Only after our show brought in shooters and performers from other countries did I start learning about other celebrities.

 

“Where is,” he leaned in and whispered, “the body?” His words quivering as if he had never seen a corpse before.

Wordlessly, I pointed upstairs, watching as he disappeared.

 

At long last, we had all gathered in the same parlor none of us had managed to produce any worthy material in, with Yuuri.  Jean-Jacques lounged in one of the cushion chairs, staring at Yuuri far too intently, questioningly, his sharp gaze pushing the man from Japan to speak first.

“Originally, I returned to check in on your progress with your works but we should best put that off.”  He shifted in his chair and Jean-Jacques watched.  I was sitting next to Michele on the sofa, far enough he had his space but close enough he could reach for my knee if he needed to.

 

“Pretty damn good timing you have , Mr. Katsuki.  We hear nothing from you for weeks and weeks but not two days following Emil’s death, you turn up.  That does not strike you as a reason some of us could be suspicious?”

 

“Jean-Jacques!” Anya, who was standing near the fireplace beside Georgi, chastised  our dear Canadian. “This is a tragic time for many of the people in this room! How rude of you to treat the situation this way. How would you feel if someone brought Isabella up like this! You don’t see us insinuating that she’s not dead!”

 

The room went quiet. Deadly quiet.  And Jean-Jacques arched his brows and looked at the dark haired woman.

 

“In all frankness, I was not insinuating that Victor was not dead. I was simply commenting on the fact that I believe Yuuri has been in London for some time.  Completely different circumstances. But it is very peculiar you address the state of Victor’s mortality.”

 

I could tell she was about to protest when the boy barked from the doorway.

“Enough! This is a tragic time and Yuuri is here to talk about Emil and not Victor. Victor is dead and buried and Emil is still in the room upstairs. We are all going to get sick if we keep him there longer. The house is already beginning to smell.”

 

I felt Michele scoot closer.  He seemed shaky.  I didn’t blame him.

“Michele,” Yuuri’s voice was soft and I saw in his eyes that he was a good man, “Did Emil reveal to you where he wanted to be buried? I know how hard it must be to answer this question. But this will help you mourn him in the way he would have wanted.”

 

The stern-faced Italian man looked up at Yuuri and nodded slowly. The room remained silent for many moments longer.  It was warm in the room, even in December.

 

“Italy.” He spoke. “He wanted to be buried in Naples. Where my sister and I live so I could be buried near him too. I can’t imagine that being very long.”

 

Yuuri moved closer, placing his hand on Michele’s pant leg, a stiff, almost silver fabric.  Almost immediately, Jean-Jacques leapt up and charged for the front door, though was blocked by the young blonde.

 

‘You cannot leave. This is important business. Back up!” The boy barked and Jean-Jacques, in all his charismatic glory, simply stepped back, as if to stare him down.

 

“If you’re going to treat someone poorly, do make sure you are not the smaller.  In fact, maybe consider not treating anyone poorly at all.”

 

And he pushed his way through.  I followed only moments later.  He was some ways down the street even having just left the building.  He turned to me as I called after him.

 

“I do not trust that boy. I know he is keeping something from us. I can tell Yuuri is nervous. And clearly Anya knows something.  I am going to find out what it is.”

 

He was out of breath and his hair was disheveled.  Before me I saw neither the Byronic hero or the haunted widower.  No, this was a man who was learning something. Who had found a missing link to a puzzle I had not considered and he was going to fit it all together.  The blaze in his eyes was almost that of King JJ, but this was a king who had been usurped and was seeking revenge.

 

“JJ, I know this must be traumatic. And I know the memories must be harder than ever, but I do not believe that anyone is keeping secrets from you.”

 

I was not sure of the veracity of my words.  JJ did, in fact, make a compelling case.

“Do you not believe me, Leo?” He stepped closer, eyes widening, now brimming with tears. “After all of this madness do you not believe me?”

 

I could not play hopeful any longer.

“Of course I believe you, JJ.”

If we were not on the street I would have embraced him.

 

We stayed out., sitting in a pub several blocks over, for hour after hour after hour.

 

“He can’t be dead.” JJ concluded at last, eyes glazed over from many ales.

 

I don’t remember anything else we said.  But we staggered back together, Jean-Jacques’ long arm draped around my shoulders.  The whole manor was quiet when we entered, dragging ourselves up the stairs.

 

Oh how I wished for a peaceful night.  And so I write this as Jean-Jacques sleeps fretfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the end everyone! Just a few chapters left!
> 
> The quote and title come from Rossetti's sonnet "He and I"


	11. A Dark Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The gloom that breathes upon me with these airs  
> Is like the drops which strike the traveller’s brow  
> Who knows not, darkling, if they bring him now  
> Fresh storm, or be old rain the covert bears. "

_Michele_

 

Yuuri had convinced me to sleep in my own room that night. 

 

“You’ll only get more sick if you stay too close.” His words were warm, his voice kind and he pulled me away from where Emil still slumbered. Cold but not hard.  His skin was not smooth but had begun to feel like a candle, waxen. Yuuri’s hand felt alive.  He was among the living after all. 

My own bedroom, rather the bedroom I was first given here, was cold.  Too lifeless.  I was awake when I heard Leo and Jean-Jacques stagger home, their presence added some warmth, their breath, their very living breath, seeping in from under the door.  They did not sing, but I must have fallen asleep anyway. 

 

And then I was awoken by voices upstairs. Angry ones.

 

“You stupid pig! You brought about this mess!” The next words were indistinguishable but were promptly followed by, “And now the Canadian knows and is going to ruin everything.  We could get in serious trouble! I can seriously hurt you, you know!”

 

I heard no reply, but I heard two additional sets of foot steps thundering up the stairs from down the hall. 

 

“We’re coming!” I heard Leo shout and at that moment, I tore myself out of bed and ran up after them.  I had never been that far upstairs, but Jean-Jacques was already halfway up the stairs by the time I flung the door open.  He looked like a mad man, eyes blazing and hair disheveled.  His velvet robe billowed about him as his white night clothes clung to his frame.  His eyes were wide, gleaming, as if he was about to prove a great theory to all of us, unveil a fantastic invention.  Leo was two steps behind him, his face warped only in concern and desperation as he reached out to hold Jean-Jacques back.  But Jean-Jacques laughed a hearty laugh.

 

“I know you’re up there, Victor! I know all three of you are up there!  Come down and explain to all of us what motivated you to play dead and demand our inspiration! You cannot be that lacking in creativity and muse! Why gather the broken artists of your past.  The sick and dying, the mourning, the homeless! Why our tragedies? Why our grief?”

 

His words grew from demands to pleas as he stood on the stairs, one foot two steps higher than the other, quaking at the knees.  I could only pray that his child would not stir.  That one of the servants or the woman Anya had found her and was there soothing her so a child of three would not have to see her father half-mad.

 

He turned to me on the landing, wielding what must have been Leo’s shot gun and pulled himself further up the stairs.

 

“I have a gun!”  He cried out seemingly out of desperation, a final chance to get his point across, to prove to himself and us that he was right.  That Victor was alive.  And that both the man from Japan and the small, angry one were well aware and, in fact involved.

 

But by the time the three of us were in view of where the shouts had been heard, no one was to be seen.  Everything was quiet.  Suspiciously quiet.  Jean-Jacques looked up the final flight of stairs, a narrow one, with a small door at the end, a door that looked far older than any of us had seen in the house.  He stared and I noticed he crossed himself, eyes closed, before securing his grip on Leo’s gun.  The American reached a hand out, but Jean-Jacques just turned and looked at him.  Stared at him intently.

 

Jean-Jacques did not shout again.  He only gulped.

 

“Jean-Jacques. You know what’s up there, don’t you?”

But Jean-Jacques said nothing and slowly, step-by-step, he climbed closer to the door, higher and further away from us.  He paused and gripped the handle, slowly, hesitantly, as if it would burn him. And he twisted it, but it flung open from the other side.  Jean-Jacques immediately raised his gun, about to fire, but a blur of silver seemed to get in the way.

 

Victor.  He _was_ alive.  Jean-Jacques was right.  I could not restrain an audible gasp.  I did not have the moment to vocalize the pounding question of _BUT WHY_.  Instead, Jean-Jacques cleared his throat and spoke again.

 

“You son of a bitch!” Jean-Jacques said nothing more but the man, the very much not dead man, moved faster than I do not doubt Jean-Jacques had ever expected.

 

“I can explain!”

He moved to pull the gun out of Jean-Jacques’ grip and Jean-Jacques tried to pry it back.

 

 _BANG_.

 

The air was heavy and suddenly very warm.  Silent. And smoky. And then a gasp as Jean-Jacques fell backwards down the stairs.  A blur of red velvet gliding toward us, slowly, as if time was moving to a pause.  Leo threw himself to the bottom of the stairs but Jean-Jacques landed first.

 

Leo did not even look at the trio at the top of the stairs.  He stared directly at Jean-Jacques, shocked silent, clutching his hand to the place between the Canadian’s ribs where the blood seeped through the night shirt.  They were alone with everyone’s eyes on them.

“JJ.” Leo whispered, gasping as he felt Jean-Jacques’ chest rise.

“Told. You.” He barely whispered in return and Leo crouched closer, pressing his forehead against Jean Jacques.’

“I know. I know. I know. You always knew. “ I had never imagined Leo to be the type to cry silently. His voice did not break, but tears started streaking his cheeks.

“Jeanne. Take. Yours. Child.”

And with that Leo bellowed and gripped Jean-Jacques’ cheeks in a plea to make eye contact, to acknowledge and recognize.   But Jean-Jacques looked beyond Leo’s shoulder, beyond my shoulder.  Beyond.

If you ask me now, I do not doubt that the eyes he locked with, were hers.  And I do not doubt that when he saw them, he saw life once more.  That Isabella had followed him throughout this affair, waiting patiently for their proper reunion.

He sighed. And I believe it was with relief.  Finally.

Leo, however, screamed, a battle cry instead of a caterwaul and he charged up the stairs, pushing the silver-haired man back into the attic from which he came.  I would have followed, but Yuuri had flown down the stairs first.  I blacked out right as he reached me.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Truly, I am. I am a fan of cliches and this is a mess of them. Oops.
> 
> Title and lines come from "A Dark Day," unsurprisingly, by Rossetti


	12. Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Our lives, most dear, are never near,  
> Our thoughts are never far apart,  
> Though all that draws us heart to heart  
> Seems fainter now and now more clear.  
> To-night Love claims his full control,  
> And with desire and with regret  
> My soul this hour has drawn your soul  
> A little nearer yet"
> 
> The final chapter before the epilogue

_Michele_

 

I was placed on the sofa in the parlor and I discovered as much when I returned to my senses.

 

Leo sat shell-shocked, but staring the tall silver-haired man in the eye, who sat cross legged on one of the cushioned chairs.  The other two most involved stood behind the chair, Georgi standing more off to the side.  I would later be told Anya was distracting Jeanne in the other room.

“It was meant to be in jest.” His accent was not as thick as either Yuri’s or Georgi’s but was still prominent.  Leo audibly snorted.

 

“You convinced the lot of us you were dead. Done. Festering away beneath the ground.  But come to think of it, there was no funeral, no proof of burial.  The letter told us Yuuri was wrapping up your affairs in Russia so none of us dared ask.  You play a merry prank and now two people are dead.”

 

Victor slumped lower and lower, burying his face into his hands and I heard stifled cries.

“It was supposed to be fun.  All I wanted was to see if I mattered.”

 

Leo scoffed again.  For a man of such softness and tranquility, anger stretched across his face.

 

“Jean-Jacques was right.  You invited the worst of us, the most miserable and ill of us. At what cost? So you can emerge martyr? We find greatness in your memory and you climb down those stairs and pat yourself on the back as if it is not inherently twisted to play dead in the first place? To play dead and have the nerve to invite a widower and a dying man to think only about death?”

 

Leo spoke quickly, though his eyes were never wild.  Only his voice raised and he stood up, walking closer to the seated man.  Victor tried to compose himself.

 

“I was going to come down the stairs and greet you all and thank you all.  And, yes, give you some of my fortune. I find I don’t wish for it. And this was the best way to do so.  To find whoever was most victorious in their creation and off what I had left. Some of what I had at least.”

 

“Why the hell would you do that?” The words escaped my mouth, most definitely against my will.

 

“Don’t be an idiot. Why do you think?” The angry little Russian scoffed, his words more like a spit than words themselves.  Victor raised a hand to silence him.

 

“You both are wrong in assuming I am closer to life than death.  I am not ill with the sickness you now carry, Michele.  I have just been told my heart is growing weary. And wearier and wearier.  The letter was not wrong in expressing I have pneumonia.  It just has not ended my life as soon as I wished for it to. And so, in my last weeks, I simply wanted to see who would care.”

He spoke with ease, always a performer type.  And he stared.

“Ain’t it mighty selfish of you to demand attention as you die? Not just that, but demand attention from those much closer to death than not? All I want is for you to acknowledge that fault.”

 

Victor bowed once more.

 “Forgive me forgive me forgive me.” Yuuri said nothing but the blonde boy stared Leo and I both down.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He tried to reassure Victor, but Leo continued speaking.

“You weren’t an honest man Victor. Why should Michele and I forgive you now? Your supposed death bed game left a two-year old-child an orphan. There is plenty to forgive.”

 

“Please. I swear I am dying. And I know I was at fault. I was a fool. You met me when we were both youths, Leo. You know how I have always performed.”  His hair was in disarray, tears and red blotches of skin warping his cheeks.  The longer I stared, the frailer he looked.  This was, indeed, the image of a sick man.

 

 

“Do you swear you’re telling the truth and nothing but the truth?”  I spoke and Leo turned to me.  Victor stood and I realized he had to balance himself against Yuuri.

 

“You have my word.”

 

Inspectors and doctors arrived in response to the gun shot and were met with much more than they expected.  And so, in the dead of the night, they stirred the lawyers from their own slumbers.  All through the night they stayed and spoke.  By morning, the proper cases had commenced.  All of us were interviewed.  Victor was, indeed, a dying man.  Because of this fact and his celebrity, mixed with the stance that Jean-Jacques’ death was a genuine accident, no charges would be pressed.  The purpose of this get together was, in fact, to name an inheritor of the property.  Victor, as it turns out, was not sure which acquaintance would receive it.  This left us with the task of proving loyalty.  He gathered his trusted companion and friends from his own country to create something of an advanced will.  People do peculiar things out of loyalty.  Considering no attendee wrote any substantial material as the weeks progressed, the competition, as it were, was not moving.  And then Emil…

 

And so Victor realized something had to be done, seeing for the first time, truly for the first time, that he had made a grave mistake.

We spoke of the dead, the almost-dead, and the very much alive.  With each plea of apology, I grew to pity Victor.  This was not his intention and I believed him.  Even Yuri was growing remorseful for his actions, for his words.

 

“I was scared.  It was a complicated situation and I worried more people would get hurt if the truth were revealed.  Jean-Jacques nearly found out, nearly went into the attic where Victor had been the whole time.  And yet, what I tried to prevent from happening happened anyway.”  For the first time, I truly believed he looked like a boy, a scared angry  young man of only fifteen years of age.

 

Yuuri, too, revealed his own truth.  He had been in the city the full time and one night, when he came home to deliver Victor medicine, he stumbled in through the window a bit too loudly.  That was the night Yuri was referencing.  Jean-Jacques had heard and went to go investigate.

 

Georgi knew very little, only the basics and was only involved because he happened to be Victor’s understudy for a play when Victor fell ill.  Anya knew only what she was told.

 

And then Jean-Jacques was brought into the situation and I saw Leo’s eyes gleam with determination, anger, fear.

 

“I was not fond of the man and found him rather reckless and arrogant but no, he would not intentionally attempt to kill Victor.” Yuri confessed, clearly much to his chagrin.  The distaste was palpable.

 

“He and I grew very close. He was a sad man deep in mourning.” Leo said, nearly a whisper. “I know he loved his child very much and the gentlemen in the room can confirm that his final wish was for her to stay with me.”

The officers and lawyers clearly did not want a mess. And appointing Leo as Jeanne’s legal guardian was, surprisingly, the simplest part of the affair.

 

Jean-Jacques was to be sent home to Canada where he was to be buried beside Isabella and his parents.

 

Jeanne, herself, was, unfortunately, brought into the room, though before she could come face to face with her father’s corpse, which, itself, had been brought into the parlor, Leo clutched her to his chest, snarling at those who came near.

They crouched there together, Leo stroking her hair as she sobbed quietly against his shirt.

“We’ll be a family, promise.” I heard him whisper. “And we will be happy.”

 

And in the end, the whole situation was regarded as a joke gone horribly wrong.  There were no charges and no blames and it was decided that the property would go to the angry young Russian and the money would be donated to where it should have been sent in the first place: the theaters Victor performed at the most, the true bearers of his glory.

 

We left the next morning and bid farewell to no one.  I cannot say how I regard Victor. Of what I would write about Victor.  Though I can confirm, that in those weeks, I wrote of a man with a boyish smile and bright blue eyes and I listened to an American sing songs of the Church, and allowed a once arrogant Canadian to regale us with tales of the past.  I was scolded by a boy seven years my junior and witnessed a man receive love once more from the woman he believed would never love him again.  Victor was a sad man who was once great and scared of death.  I have nothing else to say of him.

 

I write this on the final leg of my final trip.  Leo had taken it upon himself to accompany me back to Italy to my home and to my sister.  Passengers avoided our car and yet Leo seemed unafraid, so very certain he would not catch my illness.

“Emil will be waiting”

He spoke not only of the body.

 

 For the first time I felt ill.  I believe a man knows when he will die, for he sees death, itself.  The reaper comes in many forms.  Sometimes our loved ones we lost come to fetch our souls to bring us home with them.  Jean-Jacques spoke to his beloved bride night after night.  I heard him, always, and sometimes, I swore I heard her too.  Leo and Jeanne sat side by side on their bench, Jeanne leaning against Leo, burrowing herself in the crook of his arm and Leo against the window.  I was not alone on my bench. Emil sat patiently, as he always was, and strummed his fingers against his knee in tune with the hymn Leo hummed in Jeanne’s ear.  One I even knew in Italy.

                        _Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Comin for to carry me home_

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Comin for to carry me home_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title and quote come from Rossetti's 'Insomnia.'
> 
> Only the epilogue to go. What a ride this has been.


	13. Epilogue

Leo. 1917

Thirty years.  At a certain point, life moves too quickly and you lose track of things.  I could never quite will myself to forget what happened that month we spent in London.  I could not forget the sounds of the the quiet laughter and the smell of ink.  Sometimes when I play guitar and do not sing, I can hear Jean-Jacques’ voice filling in the words for me.  I ask Jeanne if she remembers him and she confesses that she remembers very little.

 

I left for Naples with Jeanne and Michele and I stayed there until he, too, passed away.  He spent his final weeks with his sister by his side, holding his hand and whispering to him in Italian.  He did not fight like Emil did and instead went gentle into that good night, guided only by providence.  When John Keats died, Percy Shelley bid him in his poetic elegy “Adonais,” to “Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise, the grave, the city, the wilderness.” I imagined Emil as something of a Keats figure, so great so young and gone far too soon, forever molded by his now frozen youth.  And Michele, Percy close behind him, drowned at once willfully and by fate’s own hands.

I would be no poet.

 

We buried Michele beside Emil. Sara left Italy with me.  We went to Hong Kong as I had promised my dear friend and I found life built itself up again.

 

Victor died the following month, his final breaths chiming in the new year.  It seemed every one who bore a great name mourned and paid their respects to the figure that had loomed so large.  I did not. I had already done as much the first time I received a letter informing me of his death.

 

I did not see ghosts.  I am not haunted by memories but I do cherish them.  When I first displayed all of these letters and diary entries I had gathered, I spoke about Jean-Jacques for the first time.  I spoke about how young he was and how kind but how very flawed.  He was arrogant and somewhat demanding, though never entirely insensitive and what I was told in response was,

“The most tragic thing about young death is that sometimes, the deceased did not get the chance to be better.”

 

He was a self-crowned king, not one appointed by divine right but also not a usurper.  I am nearly fifty years of age, and I  am less of a boy now than I was then and while Jean-Jacques was good then, he was a boy and he could have had the chance to be better.

I saw the boy, the angry one, Yuri, once in Almaty, on one of my troupe’s journeys.  He, too, will get the chance to be better, I told myself.

 

Georgi, himself, had become a friend, a faithful performer, joining the troupe with Anya at his side (or was he at hers?).  But someone else will assemble the notes from those stories another time.  There are many. And in truth, they are not mine to tell.

 

 

Jeanne, my daughter, my beloved child, has grown up loved, so very loved.  She reminds me of Jean-Jacques.  Looks like him too.  She is my child but she will always know where she came from.  But the time has come that I must leave her too.  She is surrounded only by love.  I have made sure of that.  She grew up to be a linguist, a young woman with no fixed home but the gift of languages.  We spoke to her in English, in Chinese and Russian and Italian.  Those who had more knowledge taught her some French.  Jean-Jacques would have liked that.

 

The time has come that I see ghosts.  The troupe has settled in Houston at long last, if just for a moment and my homecoming gift is influenza.  Emil and Michele are dancing next to the piano and Jean-Jacques is lounging on the chair opposite my desk, tilting backwards, his mouth open in laughter.  They look exactly as they did that night in the parlor as I sat with my guitar. Oh how I’ve missed them.  Thirty years might not have passed swift enough at times.  And somehow they passed anyway. 

 

My dear, dear companion is in the next room and Jeanne is with him.   A companion beside whom I stood, the man from Hong Kong I loved so  dearly.  Again, those are stories for another time, to be told by another person.  But you will hear those stories, I assure you.

Before I join my friends and walk into the embrace of the Lord, I leave you with these final words.

 

Thank you for allowing me to present these letters and diaries.  If you take away a lesson from this affair, I wish for it to be as follows.  When you set out to create art, you do not always make it, but perhaps the true work of art is the person you become in the process and the print you leave on those around you.  Art can be a shared smile and a song. To those who have passed, I see you now.  And to those still alive, find love.  May you find the people worth creating art for.

 

With love and faith,

Leo de la Iglesia, artist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is, the epilogue.  
> Some notes:  
> Thank you to everyone who followed this silly story about Victorians. It truly means a lot to me. I wish I could tell you where I got the idea but, unfortunately, I cannot, as it was not much more interesting than me thinking to myself "huh, what if I wrote a Victorian Gothic AU."  
> The story is, in many ways, a reflection on time, art, love, and loss. If I may be frank, I lost a dear friend six months ago who left behind a burgeoning legacy of art. And so, I started thinking about what it means to leave this earth and leave behind seeds. How do we write about the dead? How do we honor them? What do we choose to remember and will ourselves to forget?  
> This story is, in part, parody. Isabella's ghost is a nod to Cathy's specter wandering the moors in "Wuthering Heights," begging to be let in at the window. Leo pays homage to Quincey from "Dracula." All of these weird ideas fell together somehow and left me with this story. And, now that it's done, I'm going to miss it. Somehow I managed to kill off an entire cast of characters. Didn't know I had it in me.
> 
> And while the chapters were titled after Rossetti poems, the characters were most certainly nods to the Romantic poets, particularly the ones who gathered in Geneva the summer of 1816 and wrote ghost stories. Plus Keats. Their death ages even add up pretty well. Somehow that makes Leo Lord Byron. Jean-Jacques only wishes he was Lord Byron. Leo, throughout the story, builds up something of a greatness about him, which he most reconcile with the mortality of those he loves most. Do ask me if you want to hear more of my thoughts on this. I love this sort of stuff.
> 
> Leading me to my next point: there will be a sequel following the semi Don Juan inspired traveling acting/wild west troupe adventures of Leo and his other friends. So stay tuned for that. Probably starting very soon, as in this week. Because I can't leave these guys.
> 
> Thank you again for all of the support and for reading this.
> 
> Make art always.  
> -Percy


End file.
